


Because He's Evil

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Fake Character Death, Gay, John is irrelevant, M/M, Smut, imahoefortrixya writes smut not me, moriarty is a whole snack, sherlocks a mess tbh, we don’t like john here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 11:31:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16039619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “This phone call, it’s, um...”The wind was slightly stronger, not so much but Sherlock took a mental note of it anyway. A mental note, at this time? “It’s my note.” He choked out. “It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?”Sherlock thought John was going to put down the phone but it soon returned to his ear. “Leave a note when?” He was desperate. Desperate for Sherlock to not do this.“Goodbye, John.”“No, don’t.”





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter written by rowan666

 

Their hands touched.

 

It was intimate, not in a certain way, it just was. The gesture was something that Sherlock hadn’t anticipated, but now, as he listened to Moriarty begin to speak, he thought he did. And this wasn’t part of his plan.

“As long as I’m alive, you can save your friends. You’ve got a way out.” He spoke slowly, his head nodding subtly as he did. The Irishman paused briefly. “Well, good luck with that.”

His hand was still clamped against Sherlock’s in a twisted handshake of misfortune and circumstance.

Sherlock couldn’t react before he pulled a gun out of his pocket, bringing it to his open mouth and pulling the trigger. And just like that, Moriarty was gone. The man that Sherlock has worked so tirelessly to destroy; gone with a single movement. “No!” Sherlock managed to breathe out as the Napoleon of Crime crumpled to the floor in front of him and his hand slipped away. 

His eyes, large and dead and open, seemed more terrifying now than if he were glaring. Blood trickled - and then streamed - from the back of his head. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. The thick Irish drawl replayed in Sherlock’s head. “Well, good luck with that.”

 

Sherlock’s vision blurred momentarily. He was going to have to do it. There wasn’t a way out. And this became set in stone as he stepped onto the edge of the rooftop and dialled a number.

John answered quickly but Sherlock was the one who spoke first. “John.” He muttered. His voice was soft, monotone and nothing different from what it usually was; except there was something. John knew. “Hey, Sherlock, you okay?”

“Turn around and walk back the way you came.” Sherlock demanded. He could sense his own voice shaking and threatening to crack. Why?

“No, I’m coming in.” John persisted. He kept walking until Sherlock instructed him otherwise. “Just do as I ask! Please.” John listened. Sherlock wasn’t surprised. He was an army man, he was born to follow orders.

“Where?” He asked as he trailed his own footsteps back to where the cab had dropped him off. Sherlock swallowed what little guilt resides in him. “Stop there.” “Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s voice had become quieter. He didn’t need to raise his voice to John. Not now. “Okay, look up, I’m on the rooftop.” He barely heard John startled attempt at an ideal reaction. Sherlock didn’t know whether the stutter in his voice was fake or not. “I can’t come down, so we’ll just have to do it like this.” This time, John demanded. “What’s going on?”

The consulting detective’s eyes wavered over John. This was his best friend. He couldn’t do this to his best friend.

“An apology.” He answered smoothly. “It’s all true.” Even from the distance, Sherlock could see John flinch at the confession. His confusion was obvious. “What?”

 

“Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.”

Sherlock didn’t like saying those words. It felt like he’d just handed Moriarty the crown, that he’d just lost the game. He’d lost. Sherlock Holmes had lost.

“Why are you saying this?” From his tone, Sherlock could tell that John knew the answer. It was right under his nose. “I’m a fake.” He ignored John when he tried to intercept his monologue. “The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs Hudson. And Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.” 

The breaks in his voice and the tears in his eyes seemed to be convincing enough. “Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met. The first time we met, you knew all about my sister. Right?” Sherlock needed to hurry this up. “Nobody could be that clever.”

He laughed at John’s response. “You could.” Sherlock was about to throw himself off of a building and John was still relishing in his brain. “I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It’s a trick.” That was his hint. That was the hint that Sherlock gave John. If John didn’t figure it out, it would be the doctor’s own fault. “Just a magic trick.” He whispered softly.

John still protested. “No, all right, stop it now.” He stepped forward a few strides. “No, stay exactly where you are.” Sherlock barked and John obeyed. “Don’t move.”

As if in defence, John shot a hand up to show his surrender. “Alright.” The distress in Sherlock’s voice was evident now and the pained expression on John’s face showed that he had noticed. “Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?”

Sherlock, in the time he’d gotten to know John, had never imagined having to be in this scenario with him. Never in a million years would he have conjured up the image of him breaking his best friend. Never.

John’s eyes willingly remained stuck to Sherlock. “Do what?” He asked and swallowed the lump of dread that was growing in his throat.

 

This was better. This was better than letting John get hurt. Better than risking Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. “This phone call, it’s, um...”

The wind was slightly stronger, not so much but Sherlock took a mental note of it anyway. A mental note, at this time? “It’s my note.” He choked out. “It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?”

Sherlock thought John was going to put down the phone but it soon returned to his ear. “Leave a note when?” He was desperate. Desperate for Sherlock to not do this.

 

“Goodbye, John.”

 

“No, don’t.”

  

Sherlock took the phone from his ear and hit the end button. Then the send button.

>> Concido. SH

<< Concido is go. MH

  
He tossed the phone aside. Sherlock had 7 seconds. Sherlock jumped. He could hear the cry from John when he stepped off of the ledge, but he couldn’t think about that. He had to detach himself. No one else mattered now, and they wouldn’t for a while. He needed to do whatever he could to ensure him and his friends’ survival.

 

Moriarty may have been a spider, but he was a cockroach. And cockroaches survived wars.


	2. Conati Non Deesset Vobis

Fourteen months passed.

 

Sherlock was for once in his 29 years of life tired of working, tired of his daily missions of disintegrating and destroying every last inch of Moriarty’s network. The last months had been so busy for him, that he hadn’t even had much time to look over that fateful day.

He thought about John, sometimes. Not a lot, more of his thinking time was spent wondering why James had pulled the trigger, why had he done it? He was so confused, but weirdly intrigued by the late criminal’s mind, he had been the only one that matched sherlock’s intellect and the only entertaining person in his life. The deepest darkest parts of his heart missed his insistent flirty comments and sarcasm that was hard to avoid with Jim and he loathed himself for it. Jim Moriarty was dead, and he’s getting rid of any trace of him that has ever existed.

The remnants of him in his brain will just have to be placed at the bottom of the priority list.

  
His hotel room was bare, nothing special. it had a simple double bed and white furniture, a flatscreen tv he didn’t bother turning on and the bathroom had moderately clean marble floors. His view of the Eiffel Tower. France was a nice city, shame there was so many eager tourists taking up all the taxis and walking in his way. He used a fake id of course, there was still spies everywhere under moriartys name, the criminal might be dead but his network was still up and running which is why Sherlock had to disappear.so now he has to go as Grayson Miller. ordinary people’s names are so boring he mutters to himself as he searches for his laptop case. The aroma of citrus and warm sandlewood that smelled like HIS Armani cologne filled the room. Sherlock snapped his head back fast, inhaled and just shook his head, he really needed to lie down, his thoughts were getting to him. Plus he hadn’t slept in 36 hours after the previous mission where he had to rescue a bunch of schoolchildren that some of moriartys men had kidnapped. He kept reminding himself that James moriarty is an evil man, he’s cruel and all he wanted was to see the world burning for him. Evil. Sherlock reassured himself and through the He was way too tired for this.

He fell into his soft pillow and fell straight asleep, smelling overpriced cologne everywhere.

 

An Irish drawl singing was the first thing Sherlock heard as he woke up in a unfamiliar room, everything was wood and looked homely. That voice.  
No  
No it couldn’t be  
His suspicions were deemed correct as a figure rounded the doorway. Dressed In his usual suit, smelling the same, looking the same. Jim Moriarty in his eyesight. Jim Moriarty was alive.

A smirk came onto the Irishman’s lips and he quickly licked his lips the way he always did.  
"Did you miss me Sherlock?"  
For once in his life he really didn’t have anything to say no snarky comment or dry joke. Nothing. Mouth agape, staring. Staring.

  
Sherlock woke up in a cold sweat, head searching urgently around the room looking for any sign. Any sign he was alive. Where was he? What the fuck had just happened to him? He welcomed deep breaths into his lungs and exaled. A dream, just a stupid dream. Moriarty was dead. No coming back from a gunshot to the brain..  
Fuck, he needed something, something to calm his erratic brain. Sherlock stood up and saw he was out of nicotine patches. Problem is he didn’t have any cigarettes to blow off the steam, the bar in the lobby came to him and he quickly showered, and made his way downstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Sherlock will figure whats happening out soon :,( 
> 
> sorry this is short I literally split this into two sort of oops


	3. Tu Fecisti Me Ire Demens

Later that Evening.

Drink after drink after drink. Sherlock kept ordering more and more. He really wasn't one for drinking, but these were dire circumstances and his emotions were causing him distress. At least the alcohol would numb everything that was building up inside his brain.

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to resort to cocaine but he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to ruin all he had suffered for. The withdrawal had nearly killed him last time but thankfully John had been there by his side. Therefore he was down here, drinking alcohol instead. Very, very strong alcohol.

After the 6th drink, the bartender had outright refused to serve Sherlock any more as he really was drunk and didn't really look good. From what he could see on her name tag, her name was Dara and she really didn't want a hotel lobby fight or for Sherlock to collapse, so as soon as he raised his hand to signal for another one, she trudged over. In a thick French accent, she spoke.

"Sorry, Monsieur, I cannot possibly serve you any more. I think you should go back to your room and lie down."

"Please, I need some more. I don't,” Sherlock had failed to notice how all of  his words were slurred and his head was spinning. “Feel very well.” He choked out. “It helps.” He sounded like a generic alcoholic.

"You not feeling very good is precisely the reason I cannot serve you any more. Apologies, Monsieur, but you will have to leave."

Sherlock sighed, realising he had been beaten and kicked out from the bar so he pretty much had to leave. It was 3.23 am and he needed to lie down. In actual fact, he felt worse after the drinks than he did before. He lifted his muscular body from the table and every step he took was heavy and his legs threatened to collapse and his mind wouldn't stop swarming as he stumbled around, bumping into everyone and everything anon muttering weak apologies as he tried but failed to walk back to the elevator.

Eventually his legs gave way under him and right before he hit the ground, a pair of strong arms wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s quivering waist and pulled him upright despite the unknown figure being a head shorter than him.

Sherlock was stunned and his eyes were foggy. He couldn't see this mans face but he felt... Safe? To be honest, Sherlock looked like a mess; his eyes were sunken and black circles laid under them, hair matted with grease and no longer curly. His coat was abandoned somewhere so he just had on his white button up shirt covered in patches of dark liquid over it and overall, he didn't smell very good. He was drunk out of his own mind.

His eyes seemed to focus when the man snapped him out of his daze.

Slick black hair, stubble, Irish accent.

No. Not again.

He stepped back and stumbled over a chair leg and fell down, his eyes trained on the smirking man.

What the hell’s going on? 

He blinked twice and when he opened his eyes again... It wasn't him? It wasn't Moriarty. It was just a normal guy who didn't even look like the late criminal. Obviously.

Sherlock didn't feel good. With what kept happening, Sherlock seemingly getting signs of Moriarty being alive. Why was he hallucinating?

Sherlock didn't seem to notice the man reaching his hand out to help him up and as he was pulled up his mind seemed to clear. He didnt feel as wasted as he did mere moments ago.

"Are you okay there sir? Do you need help up to your room?" The man spoke, obviously not Irish.

Sherlock grunted as he tried his best to keep his balance, which was still faltering. “I'm fine. I'm perfectly fine. don't worry about me. I‘ll be fine, thank you." Sherlock replied, turning around and heading off to the elevators, his feet no longer dragging as he found his footing.

He questioned everything as he waited for the lift to arrive - even in his drunk state that wasn't affecting him as much anymore. Sherlock couldn’t tolerate alcohol; the taste, the smell and there he was wasted, hallucinating and smelling of it. He really had to get himself together and stop letting a dead guy get into his head. This wasn't right. This wasn't normal. Whatever was happening wasn't by coincidence.

But to be fair, the only fun you ever really had being snuffed out was surely going to affect a person.

Or somehow, James Moriarty was a dead man walking. 


End file.
